


Singing the Body Electric

by banditess



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Condoms, F/M, Mild S&M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banditess/pseuds/banditess
Summary: Professor Ardyn Izunia caught you sleeping in his class. Looks like he'll just have to punish you so you won't think about napping during his lectures again.Ardyn x Fem!Reader, one-shot, straight up smut. Enjoy. :)





	Singing the Body Electric

The only thing worse than a Poetry class, you’ve decided, is a Poetry class at nine in the morning -- but it was the last one with any seats open, so it’s the one you’re stuck in. It’s been almost two months since the start of the semester, yet it’s only by the grace of good, strong coffee that you’ve been managing to get to class on time on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  
  
This particular Tuesday is especially rough. You were up _way_ too late last night studying for a Biology test later in the day, and since Bio’s your Major and Poetry is just a throwaway Core Class you _have_ to take to graduate…let’s be real, you’re really just phoning it in today.  
  
 _Ugh_. You drop your bag next to your usual seat in the middle of the lecture hall and melt into the chair, Venti Americano in hand. Your first instinct was to skip this morning and sleep in, but your Poetry professor has a wicked strict attendance policy. Somehow, even though there are like a hundred students in the class, he knows you all by name and -- even more frightening -- he doesn’t have to take roll to know who’s missing. Your participation grade just _mysteriously_ drops. And considering the grades you’ve been making on your papers in this class? You can use all the participation points you can get. Poetry analysis is just not your thing, it turns out.  
  
Really, the only _redeeming thing_ about the class is the instructor himself: Professor Ardyn Izunia. You’re reminded of this as he saunters through the door to the lecture hall, shaggy auburn hair and a pair of black-rimmed glasses framing his handsome face. He’s got his favorite orange scarf draped around his shoulders today like a mink stole, which contrasts nicely with his charcoal suit and black necktie. He’s always dressed to the nines, unlike most of the other faculty in the English department, who seem to still be dressing themselves out of their grandparents’ moth-eaten closets. If you _have_ to study poetry, thank God you’re able to do it with a professor who looks as good as he does. And let’s not get _started_ on how his voice sounds like...like warm chocolate melting in your mouth.  
  
Is that a _metaphor_? Maybe you’re not as bad at the whole _poetry thing_ as you think you are.  
  
Professor Izunia sets down his lecture notes and his well-worn copy of _Selected Works of the Romantic Poets_ on the table in the front of the hall. He scans the room and smirks. Someone, or _multiple someones_ , must be missing. Good thing you showed up today. He turns to the blackboard, picks up the least-used piece of chalk, and quickly writes something on the board. His handwriting is open and flowing:  
  
L O R D  B Y R O N ,  1 7 8 8 - 1 8 2 4  
  
“Good _morning_ , everyone. So _good_ of you all to _join us_ today,” he smiles as he addresses the room. “We’ll be discussing Lord Byron this period. Can anyone tell me Byron’s actual name? This should be no challenge at all... _assuming_ , of course, that you’ve all _done the reading_ for today.”  
  
Shit. There was reading? You must have forgotten to do it while you were busy cramming for the Biology test. You slide lower into your seat and pray he doesn’t call on you.  
  
“George Gordon Byron,” answers a pretty blonde girl in the front row. She always wears a silver necklace with a moon pendant and always knows the answers. He grins at her and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Although you secretly wish he would smile at you like that...  
  
Professor Izunia spends ten minutes going off on a tangent about Byron’s affairs with various women before he picks his copy of _Selected Works of the Romantic Poets_ up from the table and tells everyone to turn to page 52. You ran out of Americano fifteen minutes ago. Now you can’t stop yawning.  
  
“For today’s analysis, we’ll be taking a look at ‘Darkness.’ Let’s read over it together and see what we can glean, shall we?”  
  
He clears his throat and begins to read, his deep voice carrying all the way to the back of the lecture hall.  
  
 _I had a dream, which was not all a dream.  
_ _The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars  
_ _Did wander darkling in the eternal space,  
_ _Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth  
_ _Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;  
_ _Morn came and went – and came, and brought no day,  
_ _And men forgot their passions in the dread  
_ _Of this their desolation; and all hearts  
_ _Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:  
_ _And they did live by watchfires – and the thrones,  
_ _The palaces of crowned kings – the huts,  
_ _The habitations of all things which dwell,  
_ _Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,  
_ _And men were gather’d round their blazing homes  
_ _To look once more into each other’s face…  
  
_ Professor Izunia’s rich voice reading Byron’s words in such a rhythmic meter is so soothing, your head starts to bob. By the midpoint of the poem, you absolutely _cannot_ keep your eyes open. You feel yourself start to drift away…  
  
You’re awakened by the sound of your classmates shuffling their papers. As you groggily look around, you notice they’re gathering their things. The guy next to you gets up, scoots down the row, and exits the lecture hall, which is when it dawns on you with sudden horror that _class is over_ , and you _slept right through it_. Your heart nearly stops as you look down to the blackboard.  
  
Professor Izunia is looking right back at you, arms crossed, with the smirk he usually reserves for absent students. Oh _shit_. He raises a hand and crooks his finger, gesturing for you to come down from your seat. You swiftly run down the stairs and stand across from him, on the opposite side of the table.  
  
“Oh no, that won’t do at all,” he says. “Come closer.”  
  
You hesitantly circle around the table, coming to stand in front of him. It’s just the two of you now -- all of your classmates have vacated the room.  
  
“Did you have a nice nap?” he asks, towering above you. Somehow you never noticed how tall he was until this moment.  
  
“I’m _so sorry_ , Professor, I really didn’t mean to--”  
  
He puts a finger to your lips to quiet you. Despite his rudeness, a bolt of desire sparks at the base of your spine. How is he _so handsome_?  “Your _intent_ matters not, I’m afraid. The fact is that you _did_. I know you’re quite aware of my policy on class participation. I’ll have to deduct points.”  
  
“Professor Izunia, _please_ , I...I’ll do _anything_ \-- I’m not _good_ at poetry like the rest of the class. I really need the participation points…”  
  
“Anything, you say?” He raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Anything,” you reply.  
  
“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re wearing a skirt today, my dear. You have some _class participation_ to make up for. Now bend over the table.”  
  
You think you must have heard him wrong. “Professor…?”  
  
He reaches out and strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. “You _did_ say you would do _anything_ , did you not?”  
  
“But...here? Isn’t there another class in here after ours?” Your heart is starting to race.  
  
Professor Izunia shrugs his shoulders slightly. “If there _were_ another class in here -- which there is not, I assure you -- then we would have _quite_ the audience, now wouldn’t we,” he chuckles. “Well then, shall we get started? I’m sure you have other classes in which to _grab a few winks_ today. Bend over the table, dear.”  
  
You nod sheepishly and obey. You lay your torso against the table, leaning into your forearms, leaving your rear end dangerously exposed. Out of your field of vision, you hear Professor Izunia shift slightly behind you.  
  
“My, what a lovely sight you are,” the Professor says as he lifts your skirt and smooths it down over your back, out of the way. Hearing _that voice_ complimenting _you_...it’s enough to make you shudder a bit with lust. You bite your lip, hoping he keeps talking.  
  
Fortunately for you, he’s Ardyn _Fucking_ Izunia, Professor of English, who loves two things more than anything else: Dark Romantic poetry, and the sound of his own voice.  
  
“You know, I plan my lessons very carefully,” he says. “A lot of work goes into selecting each poem for you all to consider. Which ones will help you develop your skills. Which ones will bring out your _latent abilities_.”  
  
You feel his hand slide into the waistband of your panties. You’re wearing a pair of plain, laundry-day boyshorts (and suddenly you’re thinking of every cliche about making sure you’re wearing clean underwear and are thankful, though you wish your laundry-day pair had been something _lacier_ ) but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tugs your waistband up and you wonder why your professor is _giving you a wedgie_ , but then his hands stray further down. He pulls your panties taut against your now _quite sensitive_ clit, and you gasp at the sensation. Oh -- is _that_ what he was doing?  
  
“It _hurts me_ when my students don’t appreciate the _care_ that goes into each class of mine. Truly, it _cuts me_ to the bone. Do you not _appreciate_ my class?”  
  
He cups a hand to your right asscheek and begins to massage it. The warmth of his hand in the cool air of the classroom is a welcome feeling.  
  
“I’m really sorry again, Professor, it’s not that I _don’t_ appreciate it, I just--”  
  
You wince and grab tightly to the table as he gives your bottom a light _smack_. The motion pulls your panties tighter against all the right spots, and you moan softly.  
  
“I am _wholly_ uninterested in your _excuses_ , my dear. But listen to you -- what _delightful_ little sounds you’re making. _Those_ sound like noises of _appreciation_ to me. But perhaps I need to hear them again, just to be sure.”  
  
This time you brace yourself in advance, knowing what’s coming. Ardyn spanks your ass again, a little harder this time. You yelp a little, but somehow the pain actually feels _nice_ , almost comfortable, and your yelp involuntarily becomes another moan. He spanks you twice more for good measure. You can practically feel your ass bruising beneath his large hand, but the static hum of the pain is mixing with the pleasant feelings emanating from between your legs each time you move so much as an inch. Spanking wasn’t something you had ever thought of getting off on before, but _damned_ if Professor Izunia isn’t doing his best to make it happen.  
  
Once more, you brace yourself for impact, but it doesn’t come (no pun intended). Concerned, you raise your head slightly and look back, over your shoulder, at the Professor.  
  
“Was...was that it?” you ask.  
  
He gives you a strange look. “You’ve made up your participation points -- you’re free to go.”  
  
Your brain’s gone fuzzy with lust, and you’re fairly certain you’ve drenched through your panties. Your body still wants _more_ , and -- let's face it, your mind does too. How often do you find yourself face-down, ass-up with the hottest professor in the department?  
  
You lick your lips seductively. Or what you hope is seductively, anyway.  
  
It doesn't escape his notice. “Were you perhaps wishing that your _punishment_ were not yet over?”  
  
“Oh yes, Professor. In fact, I...think I feel another nap coming on--” You fake a yawn for extra effect.  
  
“Is that so?” He gives you a wild grin, as though he is cooking up a mad scheme meant just for you. “Turn over, dear.”  
  
You do as he says. As you wiggle over onto your back, you squeal in surprise as he seizes you by the panties, pulling them down around your ankles and carefully over your shoes. He tosses them onto a nearby chair for safekeeping.  
  
Professor Izunia leans over you, his hands perched by your shoulders. His wild hair drapes around your face like a curtain. He leans in closer to whisper in your ear.  
  
“Last chance. Shall I continue?”  
  
You quiver with _need_ as you nod.  
  
He stands up, pulling a condom from his pocket. He slowly releases his erection from his slacks, letting you take in the sight, and you can’t help but gasp slightly as he gives himself a long stroke, deftly applying the condom.  
  
“Do you like what you see, dear?” he says, looking at you lasciviously. “You’ll have it soon enough.”  
  
You shiver with delight as he leans back over you and begins to kiss down your neck. He scoops you up -- one arm under your neck and one beneath your hips -- and you instinctively wrap your legs around his torso as he lifts you.  
  
In the space of five steps, he has you pinned to the blackboard, a cloud of chalk rising from the wall with a _puff_ as your back makes impact. You slide your arms around the professor’s neck, pulling him closer, settling your legs around his waist. In this position, his erection is pressing right against your naked labia. The sensation only makes you want him more.  
  
“ _Professor_ , _please_ \-- mmm! -- I don’t want anyone to walk in on us…” you say as he kisses you, and you do mean it, but you’re also pretty sure that you might _explode_ if he doesn’t _hurry up_.  
  
Professor Izunia smirks at you, and _God_ but that smirk does terrible things to you. You try your hardest to remember exactly what that expression looks like so you can think about it later. When you’re...alone. In your room. Doing _things_.  
  
“I _truly_ doubt it will happen -- but if your concern about it will dampen your pleasure, I am happy to _cut_ to the proverbial _chase_.”  
  
Still pinning you to the blackboard, he moves his hips to line himself up with you. You moan as he pushes forward, filling you up with his impressive cock.  
  
“‘ _Come slowly, Eden,’”_ he says softly to you, in that voice you know from class means he’s reciting verse, though it’s taken on a low, gravelly tone as he begins to thrust. You’re not sure whether it’s weird or _super hot_ that he’s spouting poetry while he’s burying himself in you.  
  
“‘ _Lips unused to Thee_ \--’” he says, as he nibbles and sucks on your lower lip, letting his tongue slip in where it may for the occasional deep kiss while he grinds his hips into yours.  
  
Okay, it’s super hot.  
  
You feel like you need something to use as a counterbalance to him pressing you into the blackboard, so with one hand, you tangle your fingers in his hair. With the other, you dig your fingernails into his back. He makes a noise of delight at that -- a low rumble in his throat -- and grasps your hips with his strong hands in response. You’ll never be able to watch him write notes on the board the same way again.  
  
“‘ _Bashful -- sip thy Jessamines, as the fainting Bee_ ,’” he continues, reciting the words quietly, and you cannot _believe_ that he can even _remember_ a poem while he’s fucking you, much less speak it from memory -- you can barely recall your own _name_.  
  
Suddenly, he shifts his angle ever so slightly, and it’s like your whole body is singing a harmony, calling out for his to sing with yours.  
  
“Oh, _God_!” you gasp as a wave of pleasure washes over you.  
  
“‘ _Reaching late his flower, round her chamber hums --_ ’” every one of his grunts and thrusts follow the meter of the poem -- to be expected of someone who has spent their life dedicated to the study of poetry.  
  
Sweat begins to bead on his brow -- and yours -- as he picks up his pace. He grins devilishly at you, those deep amber eyes holding you in their gaze, and you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge. A cloud of tingling warmth spreads across your body. Your muscles tighten, anticipating release, like the coil of a spring waiting to be loosed.  
  
“ _Don’t stop_ ,” you manage to squeak out, holding onto his shoulders for dear life.  
  
“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it, dear,” he replies, his kiss pushing your head back into the blackboard.  
  
Your climax comes over you gradually, a pulsing electric pleasure, and all of your thoughts save _Oh God, yes_ fade into the sparkling white haze. Professor Izunia keeps his mouth on yours, kissing you as you orgasm, his tongue muffling your cries of ecstasy.  
  
“‘ _Enters -- and is lost in Balms_ ,’” he says, breathing heavily through the words, and you know instinctively that the poem -- and your encounter -- has come to an end. Shortly after, you hear his own moans of euphoria. He throws his head back and trembles as he comes, digging his fingers into your hips just as you held fast to his shoulders.  
  
He rests his forehead against you for a moment, gathering himself, then carries you carefully to the table where you began your... _tryst_. He lays you gently down and disentangles himself. Pulling tissues from his lecture bag, he turns around to discreetly take care of the condom.  
  
Your legs feel like they’re made of jelly, but they seem to be usable, so you carefully pad over to the chair to retrieve your not-so-lacy underthings.  
  
“Um, Professor? What poem was that?” you ask, pulling on your panties. “The one you were reciting?”  
  
“‘Twas Emily Dickinson -- ‘Come Slowly -- Eden.’ Lovely, is it not?” he smiles.  
  
Maybe it’s just the oxytocin from the sex making you want to bond with the professor (that was part of last night’s Bio notes), but...you find yourself nodding. “Yeah -- it was nice. It’s...about sex? I didn’t even know people wrote poems about sex.”  
  
“Indeed they do,” Professor Izunia leans against the table, a soft expression on his face. “As it happens, quite a few poems that appear on the surface to _not_ be about sex are, in fact, about sex. Poetry is about _life_ , you see, in all its glory -- and often, all its __vulgarity.”  
  
You mull it over for a moment and come to the quiet realization that...Biology is the same, in a way. The study of Life, from the largest things to the smallest. Maybe Poetry wasn’t so hard to understand after all.  
  
“Professor Izunia?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I promise not to fall asleep in your class again. But...if I don’t understand something, could I...swing by your office sometime?” You bat your eyelashes at him.  
  
He laughs, tipping your chin up and placing a firm kiss on your lips. You melt into it. “I shall always have open office hours for you, dear.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh, I hope y'all enjoyed that! My first time writing a Reader fic and it was definitely a challenge for me. But challenges are how we grow, yes? :)
> 
> Title is a reference to Walt Whitman's classic poem ["I Sing the Body Electric,"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45472/i-sing-the-body-electric) which is of course mostly about sex. The two poems referenced in the fic are Byron's ["Darkness"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43825/darkness-56d222aeeee1b) and Dickinson's ["Come Slowly -- Eden."](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52136/come-slowly-eden-205) I really recommend checking out the full text of "Darkness" in particular -- it's...shockingly spot on for the plot of FFXV!
> 
> Til next time. xo


End file.
